Denial and A Step Towards Normal
by CreamLemon
Summary: 2 stories, both sequels to "Obsession."  John had sex with Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do.  John wants a relationship w/ Sherlock, and Sherlock *really* doesnt know what to do.  Sherlock/John.  slash, fluff, angst, lemon.
1. Denial 1

Denial

A/N: A sequel to "Obsession." Sherlock's side of the story. I'm working on my dark!John story as well, but I felt that Sherlock needed this. A lot of stories are all, "Sherlock likes to experiment with sex and John will teach him yay fluff!" Some of them are very well-written, I like them a lot and I like the smut. But Sherlock has a *reason* for not having sex in 35 years, and its more than "he just hasn't met the right man."

This is going to be shorter than Obsession. Two or three chapters only. No clue if there will be more shagging, but I suspect it'll happen.

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Sherlock Holmes woke up to an empty bed, and he was relieved. He would have to face John eventually, but not immediately. He needed time to regroup. To think. Except he couldn't think about anything rational. John had—_Sherlock_ had—he didn't even like to think of it. It was too horrific, too surreal. Was this how teenaged girls felt after their first shag? God, he was comparing himself to a little girl.

John, John. Why John? Very puzzling. It wasn't because he was good-looking. He would note a person's attractiveness, but only as it pertained to the problem at hand. And his mind...it was dull, slow-witted. Not as bad as most people, but nowhere near genius. John Watson had absolutely nothing to recommend himself to Sherlock. So how had he managed to get Sherlock into bed when no other human being could even tempt him?

The bedroom didn't smell right. Sherlock had always hated it when a writer wrote that "the room smelled like sex" but now he knew what that smell was and it made him want to vomit. The sheets would have to be washed immediately and even though he felt clean bodily, having already taken one shower, he wanted another.

He went to the door and listened—yes, John was in the flat, rattling around in the kitchen while trying to be quiet. Maybe he would leave. Was he working at the surgery that day? No, it was a Sunday, and it was already four in the afternoon. Stanford could call—he held poker games in the evening now and then (no one would let Sherlock play—he was extremely good at poker). Yes. Let Stamford call, and John would go out and then Sherlock could leave the safety of his room.

He, _the_ Sherlock Holmes, had let logic and reason fail him, and he had stooped to the lowest of primal urges like an ape that had yet to evolve. He had for quite some time (his entire adult life and a large bulk of his teenage years) believed himself to be an evolutionary step above the average man, and the very idea that he was as weak-minded as the rest of the idiots on the planet made him want to cry.

He hadn't expected _it_ to feel good (oh his mind was spinning in circles now, and it was all selfish, irreverent stuff that had nothing to do with the work, by god John had ruined him after one night). as a rule, an organ designed to be an exit should not be used as an entrance, no matter if there were feel-good bits stuck up there or not. He wasn't concerned that his pleasure in the act made him a sexual deviant (god, the word sexual could now be used to describe him). Gay, straight, it didn't apply because up until that night he was not...like that. What would people think of him now if they knew that he had..._done it?_

He paced the room—he was still naked. How had he not noticed that? His mind was falling to pieces already. He scrambled into some clothes and stood in the middle of the room, not sure what came next_. Drugs. Drugs come next._

His hands shook as he went searching for his stash, not even looking at Irene's phone or the music he had written for her. Sentimental rubbish. He thought he was over that, but no, there was _John_ instead. He found the cigarette box and fumbled it open. He ignored the cocaine, calm was what he needed, and snatched up a cigarette.

The tobacco was soothing, it calmed his nerves but not his brain. The pot was useless. He had it because sometimes he needed to smoke whether nicotine was involved or not. The best the damn stuff did was make him dizzy when he stood up.

Sherlock chain smoked the remaining cigarettes. No good no good no good wait! John! Sometimes Johns old shoulder wound would ache, and there was—he forgot about hiding and swooped out of his room to the bathroom. He threw the medicine cabinet open. Vicodin, vicodin it had to be there somewhere yes!

The cap was being difficult, and he had left the safety of his room. "Sherlock? What are you doing?"

Sherlock spun around. "John. I-" he raised his hand to the fat lip and black eye he had gotten the nigh before. "My face hurts." John would buy it.

"Oh! Of course, of course." He took the bottle out of Sherlock's hands, twisted it open expertly, and dropped one pill into Sherlock's open palm. "You don't want to over-do it, right? I know you and drugs."

"Right," he said, masking his disappointment. "Thank you John."

"I like how you say my name."

Oh, this was a disaster.

"I made some tea and some sandwiches," John said. "I, um, wanted to let you sleep, after the last few days you've had." John was uncomfortable too at least. Good. John would realize it was a horrible mistake and it would never happen again.

"Thank you John," Sherlock said, and went into the kitchen where an unnecessarily large spread and Mrs. Hudson's good china set out. He surveyed the table with distaste and noticed John hovering in the doorway, waiting for approval with puppy-dog eyes.

"It's...very nice," Sherlock managed to say.

John smiled and swooped in, the sneaky devil, and the next thing Sherlock knew he was being kissed again.

This was why he had left. This was why he went under cover for a few days, to get John to calm down and realize he was being an idiot.

Half of Sherlock wanted to kiss him back, half didn't know how, and half wanted to run. _Too many halves-your mind is slipping._

He pushed John away. "I can't do this. I just can't."


	2. Denial 2

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. Sherlock is a much more challenging character, and not just because he's smarter than I am. I found that as long as I could keep him talking, I could find his headspace. Weird, huh?

I might continue on this story-line, just because I like it. Wondering if I should re-route these Sherlock POV's to the "Obsession" fic, just to keep the entire story-line in the same place. (also, that fic is getting a lot more hits than this one for some reason...)

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Ch 2

Sherlock didn't want to go back to his room where everything smelled wrong. He threw his coat on and made his way downstairs. "Sherlock!" John called after him, and he prayed that John wouldn't try to make a scene on the stairs where Mrs. Hudson could overhear the whole thing.

Outside Sherlock walked quickly to distance himself from John, and it felt good to stretch his legs and burn off some of the nervous energy that had been building in him. John loved him. What was he supposed to do with that?

It was one of the subjects in which he was wholly ignorant. He didn't function that way. Even as a child he was fairly certain he had never loved either of his parents. His father's funeral had been a somber, uncomfortable event with the entire family sitting in a row, himself, Mycroft, and their mother—all three tearless, composed. Yes, it was a great loss and we loved him dearly, now let us get back to more important endeavors.

Just because he felt...affection...for his flatmate didn't mean he wanted to have any sort of romantic involvement, and he had made that perfectly clear from their first hours together. And why

would anyone have any designs on him in the first place? He was rude, inconsiderate, and downright mean on most occasions. He made it quite clear that he had no interest, and yet Molly, and Irene and now John were unrelenting in their attraction to him.

Molly was...Molly, and he would be a liar if he said he had no feelings towards Irene. If he had to have a relationship with anyone, it probably would have been her. She had been interesting, and just a little bit evil, which to be honest heightened his attraction. Still, she had beat him, and so while the woman would always have his respect, he could never get over that humiliation.

Now John. John was...he was John, that's all there was to it and it was why Sherlock had caved the night before. True, it didn't look like John was going to take no for an answer, but if Sherlock hadn't (at the time) wanted it he certainly wouldn't have gone through with it. So why had John succeeded where Irene had not?

Sherlock found he wanted to talk to someone. He'd never wanted to talk about his feelings to anyone, and his first instinct was to call John. The man he was running from. No, that wouldn't do.

His phone beeped an incoming text message.

_Sherlock, I'm sorry._

He frowned at it.

_Please come back._

For the first time ever, Sherlock Holmes did not know what to do.

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Eventually he returned home. He was a rational, logical man. There was no reason why he couldn't consider the previous night a singular occurrence, not to be be repeated. John on the other hand...well, he would just have to leave if he couldn't control himself, wouldn't he? To be honest sherlock didn't like that idea, not at all. He wanted—needed John around. The very thought of him leaving gave Sherlock a mild panic attack, not something he was familiar with experiencing.

John was sitting in his chair, not reading the paper or watching television, just waiting for Sherlock to return. "Sherlock, I-"

But Sherlock had a speech and he wasn't going to let John interrupt him. "Your friendship means a lot to me John," he said. "I don't say these things very often, so you know that I'm not being hyperbolic when I say that I consider you the most important person in my life. But I don't do sex, or romance or—or-" he stumbled over the word, unwilling to say it.

John stared at him intently. "Or what Sherlock?"

"I'm not the type of man to easily love or be loved," he finished.

"I know that."

"Last night-"

"It _wasn't_ easy," John said. "and I may not have been as careful or as delicate as I should have been. I was doing my best to think about you—but I thought about myself more, and I should have seen that you weren't alright. I'm sorry, and I hope you'll forgive me."

"You're getting sappy and ridiculous, John."

"I'm not. I'm telling you how I feel. Now you tell me how you feel, and then we kiss and make up."

"I will do no such thing," Sherlock said. "I forgive you, for what its worth, but we can't-" John had swooped across the room in seconds, plenty of time for Sherlock to back away, but instead he let himself be caught up in another kiss. _Interesting_, part of his mind said, observing his lack of self preservation, but then another, stronger part took over, and before he knew what he was doing her had his hands up, cradling Johns head as mouths and tongues worked against each other.

_You're not supposed to want this._

He pulled away abruptly, stepping backwards until he fell onto the sofa, staring at John. "Sherlock," John said in his most exasperated tones. "You look like I just smacked you across the face. What are you so afraid of?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted honestly. "I know that you are completely loyal and devoted to me. I know that you've managed to sabotage every relationship you've been in since I met you. Clearly you're committed to me with the same level of passion that I have for my work. It's disconcerting, but if you're worried that I think you will leave, I rather think I'll never get rid of you."

"That's very touching, Sherlock. Thank you."

"Sarcasm. Funny. Ha." He pulled his knees up against his chest and hugged himself close. "I have all of the facts. I have observed your behavior, and it is textbook...love. If I were anyone else I suspect I would be very pleased. But I'm not pleased. The whole subject makes me feel horribly uncomfortable. I'm not...like that. Emotional. I don't know if I can be, or if I want to be."

John sat down next to him and Sherlock suspected that he was resisting the urge to touch him. "What do you want me to do?"

"I need time, John."

"Okay."

"Really?"

"Yes. I think can wait for you to feel comfortable, if that's what you need. I'm here for you. I'm not going anywhere." And he got up from the couch, and went over to the other side of the room. He picked up the newspaper and started to read.

Sherlock stared at John. Wonderful, accepting, patient John. _I think I might love him a little._


	3. A Step Towards Normal 1

"A Step Towards Normal"

A/N: Apparently I'm not done yet. Trying a new thing with an omniscient POV. If it feels too convoluted or confusing, lemmie know and I'll go back to separate POV's.

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John was allowed to sit with his arm around Sherlock while they were watching the television. He did his best to choose programs that Sherlock would find useful—the news, documentaries about forensics (so romantic, those shows)-and Sherlock did his best to sit still and not complain. It was a small victory for John, but he would take it.

Sherlock felt a bit like he was being rehabilitated or brainwashed into a normal boyfriend. (Or whatever it was John wanted him to be. He detested the term himself.) They sat down every night, and he was stiff as a board as John lounged all over him. For about two weeks this went on, until, with a sigh of defeat, Sherlock allowed his body to relax, and he shifted to lean his head on John's shoulder. It was, he discovered, an infinitely more comfortable position, and he could feel John's pulse quicken every time he did it.

He knew he had the power to do that. Quicken the pulse, increase breathing and cause men and women alike to blush, but never had he done it to someone he actually enjoyed being around. He tried to measure his own pulse in John's presence as a comparison but this did little good. Getting a new case caused his pulse to quicken, or getting frustrated over a lack of case. Caffeine, drugs—it seemed like he was always in over-drive. How could he tell if it was John or something else that was causing his heart to race?

Ridiculous things, emotions.

When Sherlock told John, weeks ago, that he was going to need time, John resigned himself to accept that 'time' might be years. Poor Sherlock, so damaged, so cold. Forget John's own urges, he hated that Sherlock had barred himself from his own. The first time Sherlock had shown any physical affection, putting his head on John's shoulder, John wanted to both laugh and cry with relief. Half of him had been certain Sherlock would never give in, that they would go on living a terrible half-relationship, something uncomfortable between friends and the one-night stand with the other person in the office which you now had to see and work with every day when all you wanted was to crawl into a hole and die.

That sort of thing.

Sherlock put his head on his shoulder. It was a start.


	4. A Step Towards Normal 2

A/N: Glad ppl like this.

Power0girl: Sherlock has to be asexual if you want to write him correctly, even in a smutty situation. It's who he is. Fortunately the whole point of a good character is one who grows over the course of the story, and while John is patient, he's not about to let Sherlock remain stagnant. :)

Sherlock Holmes was not gay. He watched John shower through the clear shower curtain, and decided this. The male physique did not exactly awaken primal urges in him. To be fair, neither did the female's. It was too...well, it was flesh, wasn't it? And he did two things with flesh. If it was non-sentient and tasted good, he ate it. If it was human flesh, he studied it as it decomposed. No, he did not understand the biological need to put pieces of one's body into another person's body. It was still meat and gristle and fluids, and the only reason it felt good was because if it didn't no one would ever do it and the species would cease to perpetuate and die, because it was disgusting. Now amoeba, on the other hand, there was a rational creature. Mitosis was such a clean and efficient form of reproduction.

John watched Sherlock watch him. He liked it. He liked having Sherlock in the room when he was naked, even if they weren't doing anything. Sometimes he wondered what exactly was going on in Sherlock's mind at times like this, but thought it would be best not to act. Catching Sherlock in a moment of sentiment would likely to cause him to clam up and pull into himself.

"John, you're going to use all of the hot water," Sherlock said finally. "Let someone else have a turn."

John poked his head out of the shower curtain. "You could always join me." Sometimes Sherlock needed a little nudge.

"I don't think so," Sherlock snapped.

"Okay. Guess you'll just have to wait."

He pulled the curtain back around himself and Sherlock frowned. He didn't want to get in the shower with John. He liked to shower by himself, thank you very much, and John just wanted to get him in there so he could look at him and touch him. Sherlock just wanted to get clean.

"I will wait," he said, and closed the lid of the toilet and sat down and continued to watch. John's figure was blurred by the shower curtain, but not hidden. He washed his hair, rinsed, and conditioned. He picked up the bar of soap and started sliding it across his body, over his chest and under his arms. One soap-slick hand slid down his stomach and grasped his cock...good lord.

"Stop being ridiculous John," Sherlock snapped.

John smiled. He couldn't be sure of getting any sexual response out of Sherlock, but annoying him was fun too. "I am simply enjoying myself under this deliciously hot water, which is not going to last forever you know." He began to stroke himself in earnest, his cock growing hard. He so enjoyed this new-found sexual freedom of performing in front of Sherlock.

"So you're going to-to—do that! When I could be getting my turn in the shower. That isn't fair. Go to your room and do that, I don't want to see it."

"It's a perfectly natural bodily function," John offered, leaning against the back wall of the shower for support and closing his eyes. All Sherlock had to do was get into the shower. If he would just get into the shower there would be touching, and maybe some kissing and maybe Sherlock would-

"Where are you going?" John demanded when Sherlock left the room.

Sherlock disliked not having the upper hand in a situation, and clearly he was not going to win by conventional means. He left the flat and went down the two floors to the basement, and found the main water valve. He smiled a little as he twisted the handle into the 'off' position.

Upstairs the water suddenly went off, leaving John covered in soap and on the urge of orgasm. Except without the hot water there was a burst of cold air around him. He shivered. "Sherlock," he called. "Sherlock what did you do?"

"Sherlock?"


	5. A Step Towards Normal 3

A/N: Sherlock and Irene fascinate me.

John had no opinion of the violin until coming to live with Sherlock Holmes. Now he rather liked it, and was getting to know the difference between Mozart and Bach, or when Sherlock was playing one of his own compositions. John was working on a new blog ("The Arbitrary Cyclist") and Sherlock, coming down from a case, was doing his best to relax with a combination of the violin, and, John suspected, two or six of his pain pills. He decided he would need to start counting the vicodin.

The music was soothing, and John was thoroughly enjoying himself until the Mozart faded off into a few nonsensical notes, and was replaced with something John had not heard for a while, but would never forget. _That_ song. The one Sherlock wrote for _the_ woman.

Ever since John had to go and ruin things it was very hard for Sherlock to concentrate on the Work, especially when he was lacking in a case. He should have been working on an experiment, not laying there thinking about things that should not be thought about_ ever_. Evil, frustrating, _annoying_ Irene Adler.

He never really wanted her _body_, exactly. It was her mind that intrigued him. He liked being around someone who could think and scheme. The fact that this someone was a beautiful woman who liked to be naked and send him dirty texts was more than a little unnerving to tell the truth. He liked the attention and at the same time was repelled by it. It was rather the same with John, and since John had started being...like that...Sherlock had been thinking about Irene Adler more and more. It was maddening.

John let Sherlock play for as long as he could stand it, which was not very. "Why are you playing that?" he asked abruptly, turning around and glaring at his flatmate.

"It's just music."

"No, it's not, it's _that_ music. The one you wrote for _her_."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock said, playing dumb.

John closed his laptop and got up, no longer in the mood to write. "What is going on in that head of yours?" he demanded.

"I'm bored," Sherlock said. He set aside the violin and looked up at John from his place on the sofa. "You must be able to deduce that. My mind...it is running in directions contrary to the Work, and I'm frustrated and bored. I think I am doing a marvelous job containing myself."

"Contrary to the Work?" John asked, his interest piqued.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a sigh. "If you _must_ know."

"Irene Adler." John prickled with annoyance, and Sherlock caught his change in tone.

"Are you jealous?" Sherlock asked, equally annoyed. As though John had some sort of claim on him. Of course he did—Sherlock would never dream of going to anyone but John—but Sherlock was not pleased with the idea of being possessed by anyone.

"No, of course not! Why would I be jealous? It isn't as though you and I are anything of importance, right?" John knew he was getting worked up—he didn't care. A month had passed since the night they spent together and since then...nothing. If Sherlock was having fuzzy feelings about someone else John felt he had the right to know.

"That's not true," Sherlock said. "Come now, stop being difficult."

"I'm not the one being difficult, Sherlock. What is so hard about admitting that you want someone? If you want to harbor a crush on Irene Adler that's fine, but at least have the decency to admit it."

"I don't have crushes, John. Crushes are for little girls. I have nothing to say to you on the matter of Irene Adler."

John didn't believe him for one moment, and a small part of him wanted revenge. A small part of him wanted to tell Sherlock that Adler was dead, and had been for some time, but he didn't. For one, John didn't want to be that hurtful, and two, after Sherlock's reaction to her 'being in witness protection' John had a feeling Sherlock knew something he and Mycroft didn't.

John was angry and conflicted. Sherlock could tell by the way he stood in front of him-rigidly still, the wheels turning in his head at their absolutely slow pace. He was upset, and would continue to be so until Sherlock did something to calm him down. "My dear John," he started, not sure what he was going to say next, but John interrupted him.

"Say that again?"

"What?"

"Say that again—your exact words."

"My dear John?" he said, not comprehending at first what it was that had caused John's reaction.

"Do you really mean that? The 'dear' part?"

Sherlock looked at him, and gave in. Sometimes it was better to lose a battle. "There is nothing in this world as dear to me as you are," he said. "You are the only thing—beyond the Work—that matters."

John felt a sort of deflating relief and without a care about any discomfort he would give his flatmate, he climbed onto the couch and straddled Sherlock's lap, putting his arms around the other man's neck. "Thank you," he said, and kissed Sherlock lightly on the forehead.

Sherlock felt John's closeness keenly—this was the most compromising position John had put him in since that first night. He felt like he should express is affection in a physical way, but did not know how to. He raised a hand and brushed John's cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers. Three days without a shave, he noted, as John lowered his head to kiss him.

It was a slow, exploring kiss, and John let Sherlock take the lead as he got used to the unfamiliar action. _No one else has ever done this with him_, John thought with some satisfaction as Sherlock tentatively opened his mouth, and let John's tongue explore. Sherlock Holmes belonged to him.

When Sherlock finally broke the kiss and looked up at John with a mildly shocked expression, John smiled. "You like that, huh?"

"It was okay," Sherlock said, but he allowed one of those smirks that was reserved only for John—a contented, happy smile that had nothing to do with amusement. "I've had better."

"You have not," John shot back. "I'm the only one who's ever kissed you."

"That's what you think," Sherlock said. The smile he was wearing now was exactly like amusement, and John was a little pleased that Sherlock had loosened up enough to tease him.

"So you had some awkward teenage snogging after all, did you?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock's answer was a simple one, and it was one meant to torment John, though he didn't know exactly why. "Irene Adler."


	6. A Step Towards Normal 4

A/N: Porn.

A moment before John Watson had been straddling his flatmate and kissing him ever so deliciously, and then the words tumble from Sherlock's mouth. Irene Adler. "That's not funny," he said, resting his forehead on Sherlock's.

"I agree," Sherlock said. He knew his honesty would spur some sort of terrible reaction, but he saw no reason to lie to John, at least about something as inane as a kiss.

"Um, when did this happen, exactly?"

"What does it matter?" Sherlock asked, because the answer of course was 'After I saved her from a mess of terrorists with a sword,' and John did not need to know that. "Why are you upset?"

"I thought I was the first."

Sherlock sighed, and nudged at John until he got up and sat down next to Sherlock on the couch. This was why Sherlock avoided relationships. This was why it was easier to be alone. "I'm not something to be conquered, John. There is nothing special about the first person to kiss me, or the first person I have sex with, or anything like that. The fact that I've done any of it at all is more than enough to deal with. I can't take the time to agonize over who I may have shared these activities with."

"But it _is_ special, Sherlock."

"Maybe to you. You don't see me making a fuss because I'm not the first person you've been with."

"You are my first-and likely only-man."

"Big deal."

"It was a big deal to me."

"Gay or straight doesn't matter. Why does it matter?"

"It just does."

"You are being irrational, John."

"Do you love her?"

"You know I don't like that word. If you are concerned that any personal feelings I may have for Miss Adler will have any effect on whatever conspires between yourself and I, don't be. You are a superior human being, John Watson. Even if she did have the superior mind."

"I think there's a complement in there somewhere," John said eventually, beginning to calm down, simply because the amount of feeling Sherlock had betrayed in those sentences was phenomenal. (Though he noted that Sherlock did not share his exact feelings for the woman either.) He touched Sherlock's arm. "I'm sure I can be a lot of other 'firsts' for you."

"Please stop obsessing over this."

John shifted his position on the couch. "Am I the first one to do this?" he asked, moving his face closer to Sherlock as he spoke and kissed the soft smooth skin on his neck just under his ear before nipping lightly at the lobe.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed.

John continued to kiss and nibble at the tender flesh of Sherlock's neck and slid one hand over to unbutton his shirt. The buttons were already straining to be released from their holes on the too-tight garment, and they popped free easily. John slid the shirt open and closed he mouth over one nipple. "And this?"

"You've made your point," Sherlock said. His nerve endings were shooting unfamiliar sensations through his body, and he didn't know what to do with this data. The feeling was both pleasurable and overwhelming—almost too much to handle. He was definitely turned, and he didn't seem to have much choice in the matter.

His cock was growing hard, straining against he trousers in an increasingly uncomfortable fashion, but the last thing he wanted was to call attention to what was clearly a weakness in character. "John," he began, intending to say 'please go away,' but he only managed to get the "please" out before swallowing back a groan.

"I love to hear you beg," John said, his lips moving against Sherlock's chest. He tried to explain that he was _not_ begging, but John's hand found his zip and before he knew it John had his cock free of both his pants and underwear, John's strong hand wrapped completely around his length.

The relief of being freed of his tight pants was nice, but by this point John had himself splayed across the sofa on his stomach, his face hovering over Sherlock's lap. Sherlock had a feeling he knew what John was going to do, but instead of pushing him away and running for the safety of his room, Sherlock remained seated. _He is going to keep pestering you until you let him do it_, he reasoned with himself and sat back, trying to distract himself from his unwanted arousal.

"Am I the first one to do this?" John asked before carefully taking Sherlock's cock in his mouth. Sherlock wanted to reply with a smart comment, but all he could manage was a choked moan as he gave in and let John do as he wished.

John never ever imagined he would ever take another man's cock into his mouth, but in this instance he wanted so desperately to make Sherlock feel something no one else had ever made him feel. He wanted Sherlock to be his and only his.

He wasn't sure what to expect when he slid his lips over Sherlock's cock but he was pleased with the lack of taste—just skin—and there was something strong and wonderful about the rigid stiffness filling his mouth. He carefully tested the depth of his throat, not quite capable of taking the entire thing into his mouth without gagging. He slid his tongue across the underside of Sherlock's shaft and he responded by shuddering and clutching John's shoulder. John took this as encouragement to continue.

Sherlock tried not to look at was what going on below his waist—it was too unsightly. He also did his best not to moan or cry out or make any other embarrassing sounds, but it wasn't easy.

As his climax approached he could not recognize it for what it was, and his orgasm seemed to slam into him all at once. He did cry out then and bucked his hips—John, to his credit, held on.

John could have used a warning before the hot, salty-thick fluid exploded into his mouth, but he got over his surprise fast enough to swallow it down, releasing Sherlock's softening cock only when its owner slumped back on the sofa, still breathing heavily. John resisted the urge to run and get a drink and smiled up at Sherlock. "Well?"

"That was, um, very nice," he said. "Uh, thank you?"

"Is that the best you can do?" John slid up to kiss him. "You could always reciprocate."

Sherlock stared as John sat back and unzipped his jean's, freeing his own hard cock. "When was the last time you had a shower?" he asked, eying the organ with some trepidation.

"For God's sake! Sherlock!"

Sherlock sighed. Well, if this didn't make up for Irene Adler he didn't know what would...


	7. A Step Towards Normal 5

A/N: Very short blurb. Will have an accompanying chapter up tomorrow. (writing it now)

"I love you," John said to the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock was bent over his microscope in the kitchen, the table littered with containers of dirt. He did not react, gone in that space in his head that had no room for anyone else.

John flushed at his own stupidity. God, he was a real idiot. Spending every day of his life mooning and agonizing over a man who forgot he was even there on a regular basis. He just needed to accept it—Sherlock was never going to want him. While he took John's advances with a grudging acceptance, John knew it wasn't what Sherlock wanted. On the day that Sherlock Holmes admitted a need or want for human contact the earth would stop rotating 'round the sun and the apocalypse would commence.

John knew this, and he didn't care. No matter what, when that apocalyptic day came, he would still be there for him.

John kissed the back of Sherlock's exposed neck and left to work a shift at the surgery.


	8. A Step Towards Normal 6

A/N: John is easy to write because he is an everyman. Almost every main character, even mary-sues like Harry Potter (no offense on him-love the books-but he's a bloody obvious mary-sue) tend to be an everyman. They are easy to predict and follow specific patterns.

Sherlock is only easy to write when you are not writing from his POV. Anti-heroes and aloof geniuses are rarely written as POV characters. Partly because people don't connect with them, and partly because their characters are so complex...even people who understand them on some level have a hard time with them. I feel like I know Sherlock pretty well. We have a lot in common-but he's not easy to write. Mostly I have difficulty with him expressing himself to the audience because he would never do that.

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Sherlock felt the brush of soft lips across the back of this neck, but managed to hold position peering at a soil sample under the microscope, still as death until he heard the door of the flat open and close again. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. He reached a long fingered hand up to rub the back of his neck where the kiss lingered. John could kiss him for just a moment and it would last for years. He wondered if John realized that. He wondered if John would feel the same if Sherlock kissed him. He didn't know—he had never initiated.

When he pulled his hand away it was trembling. John couldn't understand how hard all of this was for him. John was normal, while Sherlock was anything but.

Freak, psycho, schizo, sicko. He'd heard them all, and had started pushing the term "high functioning sociopath" out of self preservation. It sounded frightening at least, but still someone who was in control. Who knew, really? He had never been formally diagnosed with anything. His last therapist, thrust upon him after being arrested for drugs possession when he was twenty-two, tried to pin him somewhere on the autism spectrum. It didn't matter _what_ was wrong with him. It only mattered that he was _wrong. _

Distancing himself from people seemed like an easy way to solve the problem. He didn't like people anyway—they were boring. He had a certain soft spot for Mrs. Hudson, and even though Lestrade was an idiot he liked him and John...

How was he to know what he felt for John? He could _care_ about someone, he knew he had that capability, though it was one rarely utilized, but could caring be equated to love? And if it could, how did it relate to sex? John seemed to think the two went hand in hand, and it wasn't that he didn't like it, but it was just so _much_. Was it so much for everyone? Did everyone want to shatter from the pressure of it all?

He didn't know, he just didn't know. It was confusing, and Sherlock so hated to be confused.

He tried to concentrate on his soil samples (they were a part of an extensive catalog of the soils of London—one day the data base he was building would be invaluable) but his view through the microscope kept blurring and he had to keep wiping away the tears.


	9. A Step Towards Normal 7

A/N: So I've made Sherlock cry twice in my fics. I'll probably do it again too. Sherlock is not a cryer of course. During Scandal he was bumped through all kinds of emotional turmoil and he didn't shed a tear. The way I see it, Irene never managed to really break down that emotional barrier he has built up, whereas John has been a little more successful in that category.

Also, I have a feeling seeing that man cry would give me a total boner. :)

I think you guys are gonna like this one.

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John was crouched over a dead body wearing those ridiculous paper scrubs and booties. (Even 'protected' the police still managed to muck up Sherlock's crime scene, so why bother?) Sherlock made his examination of the body in seconds, and now he was watching John's careful consideration of the body, as he noted the numerous contusions and the blood underneath the victim's fingernails. _I think I love him a little bit more_, he thought to himself, and as he rewound and replayed his mind's exact wording, he realized that he loved John Watson.

"Multiple defensive wounds," John said. The victim was of a tall, well-built man in his late thirties. "Such a big guy, and he still lost the fight...the killer must be huge." He waited for Sherlock to make some smart remark about how obvious he was being, and when he remained silent John turned and looked up. Sherlock wasn't studying the body—his eyes were focused in deep concentration—on _John_.

"So what have we got?" Lestrade asked, his notebook and pen ready to take notes. Sherlock didn't say a word, so John picked up the slack.

"There are muddy footprints where the killer came in through the garden back in the kitchen," John said. "Measure the distance between them—sorry, I can't do this in my head." He gave Lestrade Sherlock's equation for calculating height from length of stride. "Send someone out to carefully look for the prints outside in back. We can figure out the weight of the killer from the depth of those footprints." And he gave Lestrade another equation.

Sherlock still hadn't said anything, but he was listening as John easily rattled off his equations from memory. He _really_ loved this man. Lestrade said something else, but Sherlock was too busy re-arranging this new knowledge into something he could compartmentalize, and it wasn't easy.

John's pulse quickened with nervousness. Sherlock was behaving very abnormally (while at a crime scene in any case) and he had a feeling he had something to do with it. (What, he had no clue. He was just doing his job—saving Sherlock's skinny ass.) He needed to get Sherlock out of there.

"What's wrong with him?" Lestrade asked.

John nudged at Sherlock. "You know how he gets," he said, trying to urge Sherlock into motion. "We'll be in touch."

He pushed Sherlock again and more or less steered him out of the house, passing Anderson on their way. "Aren't you tired of being his keeper yet?" Anderson asked, and Sherlock snapped to attention at this. John reacted, clapping his hand over Sherlock's mouth and he gave him a burning glare that made John's entire being melt. Anderson just laughed and walked away.

"What has gotten into you?" John asked him as soon as they had walked far enough away from the police. Sherlock took his face in his hands, John feeling the caress of his long fingers, and Sherlock kissed him there in the middle of the street, in front of the entire world. John was too shocked to kiss him back. Sherlock pulled away, a rare bewildered look on his face.

"What was that?" John asked, eyes darting around to see if anyone was looking.

"It was-"

A teenager on a skateboard whipped past them. "_Watch it fags_!" he taunted.

A slight blush washed over Sherlock's perfect cheekbones. "Sorry. I shouldn't have done that in public."

John wasn't terribly upset. "So much for the rumors," he said, and took Sherlock's hand in his before he hailed a cab.


	10. A Step Towards Normal 8

A/N: No clue how many more chapters I'm going to do. Quite a few I imagine. I see a lot of speed bumps in Sherlock and John's future. Oh, and fucking. Don't forget the fucking.

I think this chapter is a little reminiscent of Sherlock's breakdown in Hound of the Baskerville.

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Sherlock couldn't believe he up and kissed John in the middle of the street like that. What if someone had seen? He'd built up a very firm reputation of being a cold, slightly frightening sociopath, and it would all come tumbling down around him if someone like Anderson caught even a whiff of sentiment from him. He couldn't do that again. It didn't matter what he may feel for John—doing _anything_ was not a good idea. It was bad for his reputation, bad for the work.

He liked that. As an excuse, it was a good one. But it _was_ an excuse, and not at all what he really wanted.

They rode home silently, and it wasn't until they were safely back in 221 B that John, in true John fashion, addressed the situation while Sherlock wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. "You kissed me."

"Yes. I apologize."

Unbelievable. The man was truly unbelievable. "Don't _apologize_, Sherlock. Do it again!"

Sherlock blinked at him. "Let's look at this logically. You don't want to be accused of being homosexual and I certainly can't afford to be seen as a man of feeling, so the smart thing to do would be to drop any form of physical intimacy."

"In public you mean."

"In general."

"Don't do that!" John exclaimed. "Stop rejecting me, Sherlock. I'm getting sick of it."

"Well I'm getting sick of you pawing all over me, making me feel things I don't particularly want to feel, all because you and your normal hormones can't control themselves, and now I can't control myself either. Do you think I kissed you because it was the logical thing to do? Logic is gone out the window, John. It doesn't exist! That is so maddening to me. I _love_ you, but you're _changing_ me and I don't like it."

Normally John would fight back, but he stood silent. And slowly, he began to smile. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Sherlock demanded, fed up with the whole thing.

"You_ have_ changed," John said. Sherlock _loved_ him. He admitted it, to John's face. Everything was fine, better than fine, except Sherlock seemed...miserable.

"I know and it's terrible," Sherlock fell onto the couch, moping. "I've been reduced to the same hormonal and emotional responses of you underdeveloped neanderthals. I'm a mess."

"I think that's a little hyperbolic," John offered. He was fully aware that Sherlock was going through some irrational identity crisis the required an exact amount of attention, so he did his best to suppress the disappointment that he felt at the realization that Sherlock considered love—for him—a weakness. "Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with being a little human."

"But I'm supposed to be _more_."

John sighed. "You are so incredibly full of yourself."

"I know. Do you think I care?"

"You could consider my feelings for once."

"Your feelings? Yes, I've been battling with them for months now. I have considered and accepted them, and they drive me crazy."

"That's not what I meant. I mean that it hurts when you keep rejecting me. I know you don't really want to. So what is so wrong with giving in to your emotions and just being happy with me?"

"I'm more-

"You are_ not_ more evolved," John interrupted before Sherlock could say it. "You've got a funny brain, but stop thinking that you are the most clever person on earth because you know its not true. Stop being so immature."

"I like being the way that I am. I don't want to change."

"If you liked it so much, you wouldn't be changing."

Sherlock stared at him, then leaned back and closed his eyes. "I don't know what to do, John."

John sat down next to him and put a hand on his leg. "I wouldn't mind hearing you say you loved me again."

"I love you. Don't get used to hearing it."

"I love you too."

"What do we do?"

"What we've been doing. I'm happy with what we have. I would be happy with more too, but what we have is nice. And anything...more...that you may want to do, it stays between us, within these walls, until you say otherwise. I see nothing wrong with being...discreet."

"Thank you John."

Sherlock placed his hand over John's on his leg and they sat there together in silence.


	11. A Step Towards Normal 9

A/N: Just some adorable fluffiness for your weekend.

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John was shocked at how normal the rest of the day went. Sherlock did a few minutes of detective work on the computer and called up Lestrade with a list of likely suspects from the victim's facebook, and he did some more work on his soil catalog. John went to the store, had no problems with the machine for once, and returned to work on his blog, where he did not write what he wanted to write.

Sherlock was able to get on with the Work with a demeanor more calm and relaxed than he had been in weeks. His concentration was much improved—it was amazing how beneficial emotional catharsis could be.

John pulled him away from his microscope to eat, and again when it was time to sleep. This was no different from any other night. What was different was that when John began to head for his room, Sherlock stopped him. "Stay with me tonight," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"No," Sherlock admitted. "But stay anyway."

It was different from that first time. They were clothed for one—Sherlock was wearing pajamas and John had on a t-shirt and sweatpants. And there was no seduction. They simply climbed into bed, as though it were perfectly normal, and John settled in on his side and threw one arm around Sherlock.

Sherlock lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "This feels strange," he said.

"Feels okay to me."

"Can I ask you something personal?"

"There's a first time for everything," John said.

"Why?"

"You mean why you?"

"Of course that's what I mean. I can answer any other question without stooping to _asking_."

John laughed at that. "You know I wish I could answer that. It's not just one thing—it's a lot of things. My life is exciting with you. But it isn't just what we do. You know how amazing you are, but you don't realize that other people see it too. We do see it, and some of us, like myself, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson...we love it. We love it and we can't help loving all of you. The good and the bad, the mental. . . and the physical. You know you're attractive, don't you?"

"Of course I do. _I_ wouldn't be attracted to me, but I have accepted that others feel differently."

"What _are_ you attracted to?" John asked, genuinely interested, even if Sherlock's answer might be something as terrible as 'brunette dominatrices.'

"People and things that are attracted to me."

John smiled. "That makes perfect sense. Egomaniac." Sherlock smiled back. John loved it when he smiled. He loved it when Sherlock was happy. He wanted Sherlock to be happy all of the time. "You just want me to give you attention."

"Brilliant observation," Sherlock said.


	12. A Step Towards Normal 10

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A/N: Sorry it's been a while. I've been working on some original stuff (tho the sherlock influence is heavy), and then I had a hideous cold. Thanks for your patience. So I know I've been stringing you along with things like angst and fluff, so I thought I'd throw you a bone(r). (I've also posted a new chapter for 'The Empty Heart'-go check it out.)

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John woke up in Sherlock's bed. He had one arm thrown across the detective and at some point in the night Sherlock had rolled over, so that morning found his back pressed to John's front, and John's morning erection was resting quite pleasingly against Sherlock's firm buttocks.

Sherlock was still asleep, but John couldn't help wiggling against him, taking pleasure in their closeness. The pajama top Sherlock was wearing had ridden up in the night, exposing his narrow torso and lower back, and just the tiniest hint of his ass crack. It was a beautiful sight, and John wondered at when it had become so beautiful.

The first time he met Sherlock he had noted his striking appearance, which was a little unusual for him, but not unheard of. Anyone would take notice of a man like Sherlock. It took time for the actual attraction to grow, but at this point, sharing a bed with him, John knew that Sherlock Holmes was the most stunning creature he had ever laid eyes on.

Sherlock moaned and shifted in his sleep, pressing his backside against John. John, unable to help himself, gave a little thrust forward, and then another. The satiny fabric of Sherlock's pajamas felt nice against his cock, slippery and very stimulating. He kissed Sherlock's shoulder blade and rested a hand on his hip, and continued to thrust.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he was immediately awake because John was humping his ass like a dog. He closed his eyes again. God, John was hopeless. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do. If he made John aware that he was awake he suggest that Sherlock have sex with him, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to do that again.

He feigned sleep, finding the entire situation slightly humiliating for both of them, but oddly enough, he began to feel...turned on...as well. _Wonderful. Just perfect_, he thought and his mind began to run through ways to get rid of his impending erection without having to actually touch it, when he felt John's fingers slide under the waistband of his pants and at that point he decided John was taking things too far.

"What do you think you're doing exactly?" Sherlock asked. John froze in surprise and then let out a grunt. Something warm and wet splattered across Sherlock's lower back. "John!"

"Sorry," John said, his face going a little red. He had gotten a little carried away, and then Sherlock waking up...well. He'd always had discovery fantasies.

"That's disgusting. On several levels." Sherlock could feel the hot wet fluid dripping across his skin and leaving a horrible crawling feeling in its wake. Sherlock scrambled out of bed and stripped off his shirt as quickly as possible and shimmied out of his bottoms even as he was making a beeline to the shower. Sherlock had no problem with wet, slimy things, when they were _supposed_ to be somewhere. This, this was just...ew.

He turned on the shower and nearly tripped in to get under the spray. It was too hot and burnt his skin, but he didn't care—he wanted the slime off of him. Now.

Aghast, John followed Sherlock into the bathroom and watched him scrubbing at his back with a washcloth through the shower curtain. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Sorry is not going to cut it, John," Sherlock nearly shouted over the sound of the water.

"I can make it up to you, I swear." Sherlock wasn't watching him, so John slipped out of his pants and opened up the shower curtain, slipping inside behind Sherlock. "Let me get that for you," he said, taking the cloth from him.

"Go away," Sherlock said, but he didn't repeat the words when John stayed. John was going to stay. He accepted it because he was still buzzing with sexual feelings, and John was bound to take care of them so he wouldn't have to.

"I got a little carried away. I should have asked your permission first."

"You should have," Sherlock agreed, feeling the buzz in his neither regions grow stronger as John slid the washcloth across him. Sherlock reached back and handed him the bar of soap.

John took this as an invitation and dropped the cloth, slicking up his bare hands and sliding them across the slight curve of Sherlock's ass. He didn't have a lot going there, but what he had was firm and pleasant to touch. John slid his fingers in between the two cheeks, expecting Sherlock to protest. He didn't, and John went a little lower, finding the tight pucker of his anus. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked with Sherlock's continued silence.

"I don't think I do..." Sherlock said. The pressure felt good as John pushed his fingers against the tight opening. His body was certainly reacting to John's touch, and he tried to let his mind do the same, though it was difficult. He concentrated on breathing, measuring each breath in and out, doing his best to keep control of the situation.

John slowly massaged one finger up inside of him, and Sherlock put a hand flat against the shower wall to steady himself. It was not the least bit uncomfortable, in fact the intrusion was quite pleasant. The first time they had sex Sherlock had definitely been aware of pain caused by the intrusion, but it was a pain he had wanted, in some fashion, because he had not pushed John away. Now it was pure pleasure, one he wanted more of. "John," he said.

"Sherlock." John didn't do anything more than slide that finger out and back in again, maddeningly slow. Sherlock was fairly certain he wanted more, but John wasn't giving it to him. "What do you want?" John prompted, resting his face against Sherlock's back.

So that was how it was going to be? John was going to make him beg for it? Well, that just wasn't going to happen, not at all. He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't beg, and Sherlock Holmes didn't need to get off in the shower with his flatmate. "Please," he said. Well, _fuck_.

"Please what? Tell me what you want."

Sherlock's frustration grew. He didn't know how to tell him what he wanted, and he didn't like to say those words. They were words that were uncomfortable in his mouth and uncomfortable to even think about. "I hate you."

"Tell me what you want," John said again, his voice patient.

"More."

"More of what?"

"You know."

"This?" John's finger withdrew and was replaced with two, sliding right in with ease from the soap. "Tell me you want my fingers in your ass."

"Is this what you do with your girlfriends?" Sherlock asked, appalled at John's dirty talk.

"Sometimes." He withdrew both fingers and rested his palm, fingers spread, on Sherlock's ass. "I'm not going to do anything until you tell me what you want."

"You get off on this, don't you? Torturing me?"

"Yes."

"I really hate you." Sherlock's cock had grown hard and long. It ached and he knew he needed to get off, and that was new. He never 'needed' to get off. That was something he had worked out of his system once the worst of puberty was over with. "John," he said slowly. "Will you please put your fingers back?"

"Back where?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling stupid. "In my ass."

"Anything else?" Sherlock groaned when two fingers were shoved, hard and swift, back up inside him. The water had washed away some of the soap and there was the slightest sting of pain, but he found he kind of liked that too. John thrust his fingers in and out, curling up to stroke what Sherlock anatomically knew to be his prostate. He shuddered at the sensation.

He was so close, so so close to...he couldn't say it, so he grabbed at John's free hand and pulled it around to his front and wrapped John's hand around his cock. "Do you need me to stroke your cock?" John asked in his ear. Sherlock nodded. "No, you have to say it."

"I need you to-to stroke my cock." His voice wasn't much more than a whisper and he knew he was probably burning bright red. John's deft doctor's hands slid across the shaft, coupled by his fingers pushing up inside Sherlock. His arm was wrapped around Sherlock and his face pressed up against his back, and Sherlock was soon exploding from the pressure of it all.

Still unaccustomed to orgasm he screamed, covering his mouth with his forearm to muffle the noise and biting down hard into his skin. He shuddered and bucked against John and John held on tight, continuing his ministrations with both hands, until Sherlock stopped shaking and fell back against the stouter man.

John was grinning like an idiot as he supported Sherlock and helped him out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his shoulders and leaning up to kiss Sherlock. "That was amazing," he said in the voice he usually used when Sherlock's brain had performed some great deductive feat.

"I concur," Sherlock said, and John was a little proud of his breathlessness. "Do you want to make breakfast, or shall we go out?"


	13. A Step Towards Normal 11

A/N: Glad you all appreciated the porn. :) None in this chapter, but just as fun I think.

In the following days John had a feeling he was glowing. For three nights he had slept with Sherlock in his bed (never John's bed—he suspected Sherlock liked to be in his own territory) and he went into work at the surgery feeling wonderful. Sarah even teased him that he was seeing someone new, but he wasn't about to give up the truth, though he didn't think she would be surprised if he told her.

His mood faltered when he stepped outside of the surgery that evening and found a black car waiting for him.

_What now?_ He thought as he climbed in without complaint, but was a little surprised that Mycroft was already in the back seat, waiting for him. "Hello Doctor."

"What is it?" he demanded, looking into Mycroft's stern face. "If you think I can convince Sherlock to do whatever it is you can't, I'm sorry to inform you that I-"

"What exactly are your intentions with my little brother?"

John coughed. "Excuse me?"

"Your intentions."

"I don't know what you mean."

Mycroft had a computer open in his lap. He turned it to face John and he saw that it was security footage of he and Sherlock's very public kiss. He had to admit, it looked pretty hot from that angle. The video was on a loop and he watched Sherlock grab him and pull him into the kiss three times before Mycroft snapped the computer shut. "Well?"

"Have you been following us?" John demanded, shaking himself out of the amazement of watching Sherlock kiss him.

"I don't need to follow you. Every camera in this city is programed to recognize your faces, and send the feed straight to me."

"You are a scary person, Mycroft," John said with a shiver.

"I am. Now may I repeat myself. What. Are. Your. Intentions?"

John would have laughed, if he wasn't fully aware that Mycroft could have him killed whenever he wanted to. "My-my intentions? What is this, 1950? Is he your daughter? It's none of your business what my _intentions_ are."

"It is my business. Mummy would be very upset with me if I didn't keep a close eye on my baby brother. Now, you tell me exactly what has been going on, for how long, and how this all started."

"Bloody hell," John groaned. "He's thirty-four years old!"

"With the emotional maturity of a child. I don't want to see him hurt."

"I don't want to hurt him," John said, feeling a little guilty about the first time they had sex. He was fully aware that he had not handled the situation well, but he and Sherlock were fine now. Better than fine. Mycroft, of course, could see the glimmer of a half-truth in John's words. "Again."

"Again."

"He's a difficult man, your brother," John said. "None of this has been easy. But I care for him very much, and we are very slowly getting used to the idea of a physical relationship. Both of us are. Mycroft, you know I would die for your brother."

"I already know you'll kill for him," Mycroft said, his face set in a frown. "So loyal so quickly."

"Sherlock is special. I've never met anyone like him. He makes me..." John stopped. "I only feel alive when I'm with him."

"Hmm," Mycroft said.

"You don't have to worry."

"How long?"

"A few months," John said, and marveled at that. He and Sherlock had been doing...whatever it was (what was it, exactly?) for months, plural. Amazing. "Since he caught the Hyde Park Murderer."

"And how long do you plan to continue?"

"For as long as he'll have me," John answered seriously. "Look, I appreciate that you want to take care of your brother, but you don't have to worry about me. I...I think I fell in love with your brother the first time he explained his process to me. I know I didn't know him at all back then, but I know him now, and I love every egotistical, frustrating inch of him."

The car stopped, and John saw that they were in front of 221 Baker Street. "Thank you Doctor," Mycroft said. "You may go now."

"Do I get to live?" he asked, only half-joking.

"For now," Mycroft said. "It depends on how things go. I've got my eye on you, John Watson."


	14. A Step Towards Normal 12

A/N: I recently submitted a short story for publication. Fingers crossed. It has a definite Sherlock feel to it-you can see Sherlock and John in the characters immediately. If it doesn't sell maybe I'll post in somewhere for you guys. (The anthology requested incest, so if they don't take it I doubt anyone else will want it, which is a pity.)

Another chapter w/o Sherlock's POV. Its weird, but I feel like I'm being rude when I go into his mind while he's emotional.

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John had no intention of mentioning his meeting with Mycroft to Sherlock. He knew it would just upset him, and he didn't want to cause a rift between brothers if it could be avoided. Clearly Mycroft had other plans, as the very next day John came home from getting groceries to find Sherlock and Mycroft on the floor of the living room. Much of the furniture had been reconfigured (in the tossed-about sense) and Sherlock's carefully stacked papers were strewn about the room. For a moment John's only thought was how annoying it would be when Sherlock couldn't find the information he was looking for, and this distracted him from the pair struggling on the floor.

Sherlock had Mycroft in a headlock-an increasingly tight one from the alarming shade of red his face was turning. "Boys, that's enough," John said in a bland voice. They would keep being awful just to get his attention if he reacted. He walked past them, stepping over a spilled file folder, and started putting the shopping away.

Sherlock gave him a hard stare and released his brother. "Get out," he spat at Mycroft who stood up straightening his suit and tie.

"Good afternoon Doctor," Mycroft called to John, and stepped out of the flat.

John put a jar of capers in the cabinet and turned to Sherlock. "That was very mature of you."

"He was teasing me," Sherlock said, still fuming.

"About me?"

"No, about me, but it amounts to the same thing. " He began pacing back and forth, stepping on his papers. His dressing gown had come untied during the brothers' scuffle and it flowed behind him like a cape. John put the milk in the fridge, and Sherlock stalked out of view. He returned, a set expression of fury on his face, and he drew John's gun and fired twice into the opposite wall, hitting his smiley face graffiti right between they eyes.

"Sherlock!" John rushed across the room and carefully removed the gun from his flatmate's hand, positive he was only able to do so because Sherlock let him. He set the safety and set it aside. "You do not go shooting at walls just because Mycroft is being an ass."

"I have to do something, John," he said, clenching his hands into tight fists. "I can't—I can't feel anything but absolute _rage_. I don't know how to get rid of it without _destroying_ everything." He looked so hopeless, standing there about to fly apart and the seams. The fight he had already had with Mycroft was starting to show marks—he was going to have a black eye. His hair was tousled, and there was a small cut across on cheekbone with a thin line of dried blood clinging to it. He looked a little dangerous and very hot.

John sighed. The things he did for Sherlock Holmes.

John acted quickly, peeling off his shirt. "C'mon then," he said, bracing his feet on the floor and gesturing for Sherlock to come at him. "Lets get it out of your system."

"Stop being foolish. I could hurt you."

"I was a soldier. I can hold my own," John assured.

Sherlock wavered a little in his stance. John knew he was trying to behave, even with John's open invitation to be terrible. John tried not to smile, because that would not make Sherlock feel any better, but he couldn't help it. Even at his absolute worst, John loved him. Sherlock made the decision to be terrible so quickly John didn't see it coming, and he charged forward with a yell, knocking both of them to the floor.

John nearly had the wind knocked out of him and he was glad Mrs. Hudson was out visiting her sister, unable to hear the noise. Sherlock clearly had not finished strangling Mycroft when John returned because he went straight for the throat, which John was able to evade, grabbing Sherlock by the waist and tossing him so he was the one on his back, a position that Sherlock had no intention of staying in.

John did not hit Sherlock, not once, but he let the detective punch at him as needed and took several blows to the torso before Sherlock's anger began to abate and they fell into a desperate wrestling match. It devolved even further when John, unable to take the physical contact and the fire in Sherlock's face, managed to strip Sherlock out of his dressing gown and t-shirt and then they were kissing as they grasped at each other on the floor.

Sherlock surprised John by grabbing him and biting down on his nipple—hard. John screamed and this startled Sherlock into looking up at him. His eyes were wide and he looked very young at that moment. "It's fine," John assured. "It's all fine." Apparently that was all Sherlock needed to hear because he pushed John back down on the floor and began kissing and nibbling across his chest while he pulled at the button and zip of John's jeans.

Sherlock had never taken control before. John felt a little apprehensive about the idea, but there was no way he was going to rebuff Sherlock for any sexual advances he might make, for fear he would never try it again. John lifted his hips and allowed his jeans to be pulled down his legs, and when they caught on his shoes Sherlock made not attempt to remove them the rest of the way, and John found himself shackled by his own clothing.

Without full movement of his legs John began to lose their wrestling match, and he didn't care. He found himself struggling to stay on his hands and knees to save his exposed erection from rug burn, Sherlock Holmes' skinny body wrapped around him. He was hard inside his pajama bottoms too, pressed up against John's backside. Behind him he felt Sherlock shift, and he pulled down his own pants so that his cock rested bare and hard against John's crack.

It had never occurred to him that Sherlock would ever get up the nerve to ask if they could switch, but of course he would never _ask_. Sherlock never asked to do anything. Now it didn't look like John had much choice in the matter. Sherlock would win in a fight, and he had rage and frustration on his side. Besides clearly this was what he needed to calm down, and it was John's duty to keep him in check.

John yelped as Sherlock began to push into him. "Spit Sherlock," he growled. He closed his eyes. _I can't believe I'm letting him do this_. Well, he wasn't going to watch.

"Right, lubrication. Sorry."

John cringed a little when Sherlock spat on him, and he tensed up when he began to push a finger in. "Just get on with it," he said, squeezing his eyes tighter. Sherlock's finger disappeared and John felt thick cock head against his anus. Sherlock pushed in slowly, and John did his best to relax his muscles. It wasn't easy, and he breathed through the pain. Sherlock didn't stop until John could feel his pubes against his ass, and then he was still, giving John a chance to grow used to having something invading his backside.

Sherlock was not just still—he was a statue. Soon John began to want the friction of movement in his ass, and his cock, which had gone half-limp in the process, was hard again. "Sherlock."

"I can't move," he whispered. "It's too much."

God, sex with Sherlock Holmes was impossible.

John pulled away just enough, and then slammed backwards into Sherlock's pelvis. Sherlock cried out and John felt his insides flood with hot fluids, and Sherlock fell forward onto John's back.

They fell to the floor together, Sherlock still half buried in John's ass, and he grasped his own erection and began to pump furiously. It didn't take very long to come—all of these new sensation bubbling up inside of him, and he spurted gloriously across the carpet.

Sherlock finally pulled out and John's ass felt disappointingly empty. Sherlock slid up close behind John. "Thank you," he whispered into his ear, and held him tight.


	15. A Step Towards Normal 13

A/N: Now that Sherlock's calmed down I can write from his POV again.

Great news for me, bad news for you-my short story sold! I'm very pleased about this. It's my 4th published work. I'll let you guys know when it comes out, and sorry you don't get to read it for free.

Silentshadow: Well, people do tend to praise me more for my Sherlock than my John. :) When I was writing my first Sherlock fic John started getting a little dark, and while I channeled most of that darkness into The Empty Heart, some of it still slipped in. My perception of John comes directly from the first episode of the show: "You're not haunted by the war, you miss it" "I said dangerous and here you are." I feel like John has a lot of darkness under that mild mannered exterior, but despite that, he's still a care-giver type. Its an interesting juxtaposition.

8888

Sherlock didn't want to move. He wanted to stay on the floor curled up around John forever. It was a good place to be. It calmed him down, brought him back out of the fog of fury that had been growing in his brain ever since Mycroft had to come over to point out that he was no longer a virgin and gay as a picnic basket in the most condescending and offensive words possible.

John was so good to let Sherlock use him as a punching bag. Really he felt much, much better. Almost good enough to start plotting revenge on Mycr-

The door of the flat swung open without so much as a knock. "We got some noise complaints and when I heard it was Bakerstreet I thought I'd would..." Lestrade spoke as he barged in, his voice disappearing entirely when he looked down and saw them on the floor.

John's pants were still around his ankles and Sherlock had stripped down entirely. They were a pretzel of limbs tided together so tightly it took some effort to untangle the mess. "Get out!" Sherlock shouted, and without a word Lestrade stepped backwards and shut the door.

"Oh God," John gulped, getting to his feet and grabbing at his pants.

Sherlock was slightly less panicked over the situation. The worst had already happened—they had been found out. Now it was just a matter of damage control. He picked up his dressing gown and slipped into it. "This day could not get any worse," he did say, as John rushed out of the room. He sighed went over to the door. He could hear Lestrade laughing on the other side. Laughing.

He flung open the door and gave the DI his very best glare. Lestrade's laughter died on his lips. "What, you don't find this hilarious?" he asked

"Not really," Sherlock replied, stepping aside so Lestrade could re-enter the room.

"Noise complaints," Lestrade said, and started laughing all over again.

Sherlock was used to being verbally abused. He was used to occasionally being swung at, but no one, _no one_, ever laughed at him. "Shut up before I make you shut up," he nearly growled. First Mycroft, now this. Even Mycroft wasn't crass enough to laugh at him. The calm that came with the time spent on the floor vanished. "You can't tell anyone."

"I dunno Sherlock. I've got five quid on you two. So when are you sending out wedding invitations?"

"I don't take well to being teased," Sherlock warned, wondering where John had put the gun. Over his head he heard the shower go on. Clearly John was not about to come down and help him face this. It figured, the coward. Put him up against an army of Afghan soldiers and he's fine, but one person discovers that he's just a little bit gay and he goes into hiding, leaving Sherlock to deal with a delicate situation on his own.

Lestrade stopped smiling. "Oh, come off it, Sherlock. It's nice to know you're not a complete robot after all. As tempting as it is, I wont tell anyone if you don't want me to. But seriously. Tell John he has my congratulations-and condolences." He backed towards the door. "You boys just go back to whatever it is you were doing before I got here. Just keep it down, or next time I get a complaint I'll send Anderson."

"Piss off," was Sherlock's reply, and he slammed the door behind Lestrade.

8888

Upstairs John turned off the shower and stood in the tub, drip-drying. He could still feel his embarrassment burning over every inch of his face and neck. God, how could he ever face the Detective Inspector again? And if Sherlock was furious before, John couldn't imagine what he was feeling now. John didn't know if he could handle it.

He stepped out of the tub and found Sherlock waiting for him, holding a towel. He was wearing just his dressing gown, tied loosely around his slim waist. "Are you okay?" Sherlock asked John.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You ran."

"I was embarrassed," he said, taking the towel and rubbing down his arms and chest before wrapping it around his waist. "What did he say?"

"He laughed," Sherlock said. "Asked about wedding invitations. And apparently there's a betting pool going on over the two of us. This is all your fault."

"Clearly," John said, nonplussed.

"Before you came along they didn't like me, they didn't respect me, but at least they didn't laugh."

"Is it better to be laughed at, or to be alone?" John asked, a little concerned. He had been embarrassed, yes, but he would get over it. He could get over anything for Sherlock. But Sherlock...

"I don't know," Sherlock said. He stripped off his dressing gown, letting it fall to the floor, and walked past John to step into the shower. "I'll have to get back to you on that one."


	16. Crisis 1

A/N:

I know I haven't updated in a billion years and I'm sorry for that. I wrote a novella this summer, called The King Under the Hill. I'm in the editing stages and I'm not sure if I will go a traditional route for publishing, or self-publish. If I self-published it would be super cheap, like 3 bucks. Anyone interested? (It's about a girl who is kidnapped by faries and seduced by the fairy king. If ppl want boys that sparkle I can deliver. :) )

Anyway, back to this story. We're turning a corner into some more angsty territory. For those who are into that sort of thing. I haven't 100% decided how far I will take this storyline. It might involve a certain miss Mary Morstan.

8888

John lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He was alone, in his bed, and had been for weeks. Sherlock was in his bed downstairs, but it seemed like they were miles apart. Everything had been going so well, but between Mycroft and Lestrade...Sherlock's ego had been severely damaged, and clearly that ego was more important to him than John was. Sherlock had shut down, clammed up. It was so much worse than when he was bored (at least bored he would still complain).

And John, well, he wasn't sleeping properly anymore. He stayed up late and woke up even later—Sarah started scheduling him in the afternoons only. He didn't speak much either without Sherlock answering him, and he began to hide in his room.

Everything had stopped. The sex had stopped. The violin music and the experiments and the temper tantrums. The crime fighting had stopped, and that was probably worse than all of the rest because John truly loved solving mysteries with Sherlock and writing about them. He hadn't updated his blog in weeks. The fans were getting restless.

John blinked at the ceiling. It looked the same. With a sigh he got up and stumbled downstairs. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling in the living room. John ignored him and went into the kitchen. "Have you had breakfast?" he called, trying to make a semblance of normalcy. "Lunch then?" he asked when there was no answer. Still nothing. John began to cook, going through the motions but not paying much attention to what he was slapping onto pieces of bread before putting the sandwiches on the griddle.

At the sound of the kettle whistling Sherlock wandered into the room. John put a plate down in front of him and he began to eat. "You could at least say thank you," John snapped, unable to help himself.

"Social niceties are a waste of time," Sherlock replied. If he spoke once he wasn't likely to do it again that day.

"It's not a waste of time to be nice to me," John said, slamming a spatula down in frustration. It bounced and hit the floor.

"You'll love me no matter how awful I am to you." He picked up his tea cup.

Ready to burst with anger, John slapped the cup out of his hand, the china hitting the floor and shattering. Sherlock looked up at him, a shocked expression on his face that quickly vanished. "And I'm the one being rude?" he accused.

"_Shut up_," John snapped. "Just, just shut up! I am sick of you, Sherlock. I try so hard and all I get is ignored at best, and the abuse has to stop. I am whatever you need me to be—I give and you take, but you never give anything back, and I am _done_."

"Does this mean you're leaving?"

John stopped raging. Leave. It wouldn't have occurred to him if Sherlock hadn't said it fist. Leaving would be horrible. And it was exactly what had to happen. "Yes," he said. "I'm leaving." Sherlock nodded, as if he knew it was coming, and said nothing more. John left the room.

His hands shook as he loaded up a duffel in his room. This wasn't like the last time he had left for the night. It felt...final. So to make sure it wasn't he only took what he absolutely needed for the next few days. If he didn't have any of this things he would have to come back sooner or later. But at that very moment he couldn't stay. Sherlock was never going to realize what an ass he was being if John was still there to coddle him—and he would.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the living room waiting for him when he came back down. "Well," John said. "I guess this is goodbye."

"Thank you John," Sherlock said. "I wish you well."

John stared at him. He was insane. Well, he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "Yes. Thank you. Goodbye." He walked past Sherlock and out the door.

On the street he wanted to cry. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone, dialing Sarah. "Hi," he said. "Can I borrow your sofa?"

8888

John was gone. The flat was more quiet than it had ever been and John was gone. Part of Sherlock was relived—things could go back to normal. Ever since he and John had started...doing whatever it was they did, the Work had suffered. The Work had suffered and so had his reputation and his psyche. He was better off alone. Always had been and always would be. He liked being alone.

At least, that was what he told himself when he went upstairs to his room. John knew about the drugs in the bedside table. He didn't know about the ones under the bed. He got down on his stomach and reached under to pull up the loose floorboard and fish out the baggie.

He sat on the floor and examined its contents, long unused. The flame darkened spoon, the tourniquet and syringes. He picked up the small amount of white powder twisted up inside a balloon, held it in his hand like a delicate and precious butterfly. He just needed a break.

Just for a little while.


	17. Crisis 2

A/N: This isn't how I would have introduced Mary Morstan-I would have done it with an adaptation of her story. But John needs a distraction and she's the obvious choice. In this chapter Sherlock and Mycroft have a bit of a heart to heart (with bickering) which I think is very nice.

0000

It took John three days to open up and tell Sarah the full truth. "Me and Sherlock had a row" didn't quite seem to cut it. They sat down to talk about it with a bottle of wine, but it quickly escalated to chocolate ice cream as well. "Is this what women do when they dump their boyfriends?" he asked, pointing at the ice cream with his spoon.

"Pretty much," she replied, digging into her own bowl. "Its what I did when I dumped you."

"You didn't have to," he said. "I liked where we were going."

"Even back then I knew-" she smiled at him, and shook her head. "Sherlock Holmes took up every bit of your heart. I couldn't compete."

"That's not very fair. You're wonderful, Sarah. Sherlock is-"

"A prick, I know. And I don't like him. Maybe this is a good thing, John."

"It doesn't feel like a good thing."

She gave him a brief hug. "He loves you as much as you love him. I can tell. But he's not a good person and he's not a kind person. No matter how much he loves you he will always love himself more."

"I hope that's not true," John said, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper.

"I know it hurts," Sarah said. "But you should move on before you get in too deep. He's not good for you John—you know that."

"I don't know if I care."

She gave him a bright smile and reached for her phone. "Let me give my friend Mary a call—you'll like her. I'll set you two up for a lunch date." John tried to protest. "No, no. You'll just love her, I know it. No more drama, no more icky Sherlock Holmes."

He sighed. "Fine, fine."

0000

The thing about drugs was that they never really erased the problems in one's life, but they did a hell of a job making a man not care about them. Sherlock was pretty damn happy. Sure, he hadn't left the sofa for three days, but at least it didn't matter that his world had ended, that the only person who had ever loved him, _really loved him_, had left because he was a self-centered, prideful pain in the ass.

But the heroin had almost run out, and he was starting to sober up again. God, why was he ever sober? It was a horrible state to be in. He lifted he head to the miniscule pile of powder left on the table in front of him. One more hit.

0000

There was something about Mary. The way she smiled, the way she brushed the loose strands of hair out of her eyes...John liked it. He hadn't expected to like it, but he did. She sat across from him at the restaurant. "Let's get dessert, John," she said. "They do a great tiramisu here."

"Um, sure." She wasn't afraid of dessert on the first date—he liked that in a woman. Mary was blond and blue-eyed, not especially pretty, but pleasant to look at. She was a few years younger than him, but he liked that too. She wore a string of pearls and a soft grey dress. Very nice. "So tell me about your family."

"Well," she said, "my mum died when I was a baby...and my father of a heart attack when I was seventeen..."

Oh God. "You know what," he said as waiter appeared. "We'll have the tiramisu and the chocolate cake."

She gave him a small smile. "It's okay," she said, playing with her string of pearls. "I'm used to being alone."

She looked so helpless and sweet...John was done for.

0000

As soon as Sherlock's cognitive functions returned to normal he knew it was the very last thing he wanted. He had this pain he couldn't pin down or describe. It was overwhelming and it filled his brain, blocking out everything else. He needed to be numb. He needed to not care.

Sherlock could have gotten more anywhere. He could spot a fellow user at 100 metres, and had a few doctors at St. Barts that would give him anything he wanted as long as he kept shut about them. But there was something exciting about taking the tube to the seediest parts of London, walking up to big, run down houses and asking for guys with names like Bogey and Fat Cat Jack.

As he was leaving the house, his prize safe in his coat pocket, the black car pulled up next to him. "Go to hell," he shouted at it and began walking. The car followed. When he needed to cross the street to get to the tube station it pulled out in front of him and the back door opened.

"Get in, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice boomed out from the interior.

"Piss off."

"Your vocabulary does not improve when you're using. I will use force if necessary, and I'd rather not cause a scene."

Sherlock hesitated, considering running just to make Mycroft's life harder. If he had been in a better mood (or eaten in the last three days) he would have. Instead he got into the car, slumping in the seat and keeping his coat wrapped tight around him. "Give it up," Mycroft said, holding out his hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Bruno in the front seat would enjoy strip searching you," he tried. "Especially since the two of you share...inclinations." Sherlock reached into his coat and handed over the ziplock. "Thank you," his brother said. "Why can't you just get drunk like a normal person?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"It's not romantic, you know," Mycroft said. "You're not languishing in a Victorian era opium den. You're in Tottenham."

"As though I care about romance," Sherlock snapped. "Alcohol is boring."

"So what did you do?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"To John Watson. I know he's kipping at his ex-girlfriend's house and going out to dinner with blonds, and you've been stoned stupid for days on end. So come off it."

"I don't see why it matters to you."

"Because I'm your brother, idiot."

"Well no one asked you to be. I just want to be left alone. I like being alone."

"You're miserable! Whatever you've done, apologize and get him back. You're so much more manageable when you're getting buggered."

Sherlock wanted to rip the inside of the sedan to pieces. He wanted to wring his brother's neck, anything to stop him from teasing. Instead he clenched his hands at his sides. "Stop it," he said. "Stop it, stop it!"

_"You_ stop screeching like a five year old having a temper tantrum," Mycroft said. "I only give you a hard time because you make it so easy. Do you think I care that you're having sex with a man? I could give to shits what gender you're fucking. I'm glad you've found someone—anyone-that will have you and I think you're an idiot to let him get away. To you and I he's an idiot and he can be a bit sensitive, but you've got to just deal with that. Be nice to him, make an effort. Sherlock, when you're around him, you glow."

The entire conversation was making him extremely uncomfortable. Why couldn't Mycroft understand that he couldn't do relationships? And this business of glowing, whatever that meant, it was disgusting and embarrassing. "Please," Sherlock said. "I don't want to talk about this. Why don't we discuss opiates for a moment. I would like mine back please."

"I don't think so."

"I'm not an addict."

"But you could be. If you come back here I will just send someone out after you again. And again and again. The same if you try to score something from one of your friends at St. Barts."

"You do know that stalking is illegal, right?"

"Only if you're a civilian. Here." he handed Sherlock a phone. "Call him. It's much better than drugs."

Sherlock reached for the phone. His hand was shaking.

0000

John's mobile went off in his pocket, and he checked the caller ID. It was blocked. He turned to Mary. "I should probably get this," he said. "Might be a medical emergency—doctor and all."

"Of course," she said with that sweet smile.

He turned away slightly and answered. "Doctor John Watson."

"You never answer your phone like that," Sherlock's voice said, flat and unemotional as ever. "Who are you trying to impress?" John glanced back at Mary, who was pretending not to pay attention. It was so wonderful to hear Sherlock's voice, and yet a part of John's brain told him, _here he is, ruining yet another one of your dates. Bloody Sherlock Holmes_.

"Yeah, thanks," John said. "I'll get back to you later." He hung up before Sherlock could reply and turned his attention back to the girl sitting across from him. He wasn't going to drop everything and just go running back. Sarah was right. He couldn't keep letting Sherlock torture him. He had to move on.

0000

Sherlock stared at the silent phone in his hand. John had answered his phone with 'doctor' and he had pretended Sherlock's call wasn't important. Which meant he was on a date. And Sherlock Holmes was impossibly, totally jealous.


	18. Crisis 3

A/N:  
>I know this is practically not a chapter at all, but I wanted to let you guys know that I'm still writing and working on this. Just slowly with all the original stuff I've been working on. There is a free story, In the Dark, available thru my website, leighwilder. blogspot. com and several titles are now available for 99 cent downloads. I'm trying very hard to build up an actual reader base, so even if you don't want to pay for stories, slapping a link on your facebook or twitter would be immensely helpful.<p>

Thank you, and I love you guys.

###

Later that evening someone was frantically knocking on Sarah's door. John got up to open it, not unsurprised that Sherlock was on the other side. The towering brunette marched past John and into the flat with a force similar to a hurricane, his coat billowing out behind him like a cape. A look of fury (or panic?) on his face. "Where is she?" he demanded.

"Where's who?"

"The blond. The one you're have dinner with and calling yourself 'doctor' for you idiot!"

"How did you know she was blond?" John asked, to surprised to react to anything else.

"I have my ways. Now where is she?"

"I don't exactly snog on the first date, Sherlock," John said, exasperated. "And I certainly wouldn't take her to the flat where I'm kipping on an ex-girlfriend's sofa."

"Thank god." Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him into his arms so quickly John was almost knocked off his feet. Once in his arms though, John was relieved, and Sherlock's mouth found his, and he had missed _kissing_ Sherlock so much. When they finally pulled apart John wiped wet tears off of his face. "I miss you," Sherlock said. "I know I'm an ass. Can't we try to deal with it?"

John smiled. "Yeah. Sure."


	19. Crisis 4

A/N:

Sorry for the long wait. Been busy. As some of you know I also write erotica under the name Leigh Wilder. I'm in the final chapters of my first erotic novella, _Freedom in Chains_. It is a straight BDSM story. You wouldn't think one could get bored of writing sex, but you totally can! This book has sex almost every chapter. I'm gonna want a few beta readers for it as I am trying the self-publishing route. If you're interested drop me a PM. I've got 3 chapters left to write and I hope to be done in the next week or so.

In the mean time, I currently have 4 stories up on smashwords and amazon, as well as several stories available in proper anthologies. All of the individual stories are marked .99 cents, and one story, _In the Dark,_ is available on smashwords for free. If you want to drop a buck to help one of your favorite indie authors cover her cat's outrageous medical bills (had to have every single tooth pulled) you can go to my website, leighwilder. blogspot. com and access all of my work through there. If you buy something on either site and like it, be sure to leave a good review. If you don't wanna buy anything, that's perfectly okay. If you can link to me on your facebook, twitter, or blog, that would be awesome too.

###

John didn't look Sara in they eye when he packed up this thing and left with Sherlock. He knew exactly what was going on in her head and he didn't need to see the disapproval on her face. She grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder as he tried to follow John out the door. "You keep going," she ordered John. "He'll meet you downstairs."

Sherlock gave Sara a wary look as John sighed and left him, alone, to deal with her. It was a bad idea. He wasn't feeling very well without the opiates coursing through his veins and was bound to be cranky with the insufferable woman. "Look," Sarah said. "I know you love him." He glared, refusing to answer, but she didn't seem to require a response. "That's why you have to let him go, Sherlock Holmes. He's too sweet and too nice and he'll keep putting up with you being awful and that's just not fair to him. You're not a decent person, Sherlock."

"He knows that," he managed to mutter, even though he had no intention of speaking at all. It was rather hot in the room, but he kept his coat and scarf on.

"Please let him go. Tell him you don't love him—tell him anything. Just let him have a normal life."

"He doesn't want a normal life," Sherlock snapped back. "He was depressed and bored with his normal life—why do you think he came to me in the first place?"

She shook her head. "Please stop hurting him. He deserves better than you."

"I know," Sherlock said, and turned away. He didn't need that idiot woman telling her anything about himself or John. He was fully aware of the issues with their relationship. John, being more emotionally developed, was even more aware.

John gave Sherlock a studying look when he met him right outside the doors of Sarah's building. "Are you okay?" he asked him.

"Fine. I'm always fine." He hid his shaking hands in his coat pockets. It had been a very long time since he had gone on a three day binge. Even before John his use had only been sporadic for some time.

"You're sweating. She didn't go off on you that bad!"

"Just a little under the weather," Sherlock assured. He had been feeling queasy ever since he discovered John had gone out on a date, but it wasn't his displeasure in the situation that was making him sick now. "Let's get a cab."

John felt concerned during the ride home. Sherlock curled into himself, leaning against the door. When John took his hand it was clammy. "Are you sick?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John."

He felt his forehead. Fever. "I leave you alone for three days and you get the flu," John joked. "Typical Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't reply. All he could concentrate on was not being sick all over the back of the cab. When they finally pulled up to 221 he stumbled out of the cab, and John, dear, sweet, lovely John, was there to catch him. John held on to him and guided him up to the flat. As soon as they were through the door he bolted for the toilet.

John could hear him being sick, and was about to go in after Sherlock, but he caught sight of the flat's appearance. Sherlock had not picked up anything since John left. The broken cup and dried, sticky tea was still on the floor and empty cups littered the counter (no sign of food being eaten—John didn't think Sherlock knew how to cook). The second thing he noticed was the pile of newspapers surrounding and on top of the sofa. He started to pick them up to make space to get Sherlock comfortable (he liked laying on the sofa in front of the telly when he was ill) and that was when he noticed the dirty syringe and burnt-black spoon on the seat of a chair pulled up next to the sofa. On further inspection he found the length of rubber tubing Sherlock had used to tie off his arm, and the broken balloon with traces of heroin still inside.

He knew Sherlock too well to be surprised, but he could still be disappointed. His friend wasn't sick—he was going through withdrawal. John sighed and scooped up all of the heroin accoutrements and wrapped them in the old newspapers before tossing them in the bin. Not while he was here. Not ever again.

John found Sherlock on his knees in front of the the toilet, still wearing his coat, vomit on his scarf. "Are you done?" John asked calmly.

"I think so," Sherlock said, and sniffed, trying to wipe away tears. John pulled him gently to his feet and began to untie the soiled scarf. "Don't," Sherlock said with a moan. "Don't take care of me."

"Sorry, it's kind of what I do," John said, pushing the coat off of Sherlock's slim shoulders. He as wearing dirty slacks and a t-shirt that smelled strongly of unwashed person. Amazing what that coat of his could hide. "Let's get you in the shower," he said, and started pulling at the t-shirt. Sherlock held on to John to keep his balance as John took off his slacks and helped him into the shower.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, feeling worse by the second. He couldn't even be happy that John was back with him, but felt strangely comforted when John peeled off his clothes and climbed into the shower with him. "I don't trust you not to fall over," he excused himself, and stood behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his narrow ribcage. Sherlock turned his face up to the water. It had been quite a few days since he had been properly clean.

John took a washcloth and soap, rubbing him down all over. There was nothing sexual in his ministrations—it wasn't what Sherlock needed at that moment. He was careful, sliding soapy fingers over the multiple track marks on Sherlock's arm. He looked up at him. "Did you do this because I left?" he asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded.

"Have you done it before?"

"Not for a long time."

"You won't do it again, you hear me?" John's voice was hard, and even Sherlock noticed the fear in his tones. "Not ever again, no matter what happens between us. Promise me."

"I promise," he said, too tired to argue.

John got them both out of the bath and dried off. John steered Sherlock towards his room and then switched directions when he caught sight of Sherlock's pulled-apart bed, and another syringe on his bedside table. "You're sleeping in my room tonight," John said.

He got Sherlock settled under the blankets and got a bucket in case he needed to throw up again, and set it on the floor. "All good?" John asked him. Sherlock nodded. John climbed into bed on the other side sidling up close to Sherlock and wrapping one arm around his bony shoulders. "I don't like that you got like this just because we had a row and I took off in a huff."

"You said you were_ leaving_. As in forever. I couldn't stand it."

"I was coming back you git," John said.

"You're everything," Sherlock said, his voice gone soft. "I can't do it without you."

"Do what?"

"Live."


End file.
